Monthly Archives: November 2009

Trekking with Tui, by Zall (age 13)

Zall with a large friend.

Way up in northwest Laos, our family decided to go off the tourist track to a tiny town called Muang Long, only accessible on a single-lane dirt road. When we got off the ramshackle bus, we found the only place to stay in town and went to a little restaurant fifty feet away, where we ate a late lunch of fried rice and vegetables. Soon after our meal, a gentleman came by the restaurant and said he worked for the local “tourism office” and he wondered what we might like to do. We decided it was a good time to do a trek, so the guy in charge set us up with a local man named Tui, who spoke pretty-good English and knew the area well. We told Tui we wanted a three-day two-night trek to some outlying villages that had no roads. Tui said he would be ready early the next morning and that he would meet us at our guesthouse. He met us with a small backpack at 7:00 the next morning. All we had to bring were changes of clothing, our med kit, and a jacket for the cool evenings.

Tui, Zall, Tui’s friend, and Ari eating lunch by the side of the trail on a tablecloth of banana leaves.

Heading through the morning market area and between two stilted houses was a tiny trail snaking up a mountain. I looked at the beautiful scenery in awe. Dozens of steep, rolling green hills blanketed the vast landscape. The steep trail wove through banana trees, strange ferns, dry-farmed rice fields, and bamboo forests. Much of the forest had been cut down in previous years due to local “slash-and-burn” practices. Down the trail, a small river ran through the foliage, and over the river was a rickety, bamboo bridge that would carry us to the other side. Tui continued walking without paying any notice to the structure. I hesitated, and then gingerly tiptoed across the wobbly bridge and heaved a huge sigh when I got to the other side. Along the way, Tui told us about the uses of the plants; this large-leafed plant was cut into strips for baskets; the root of this tall plant was used to cure headaches. He carved a spinning toy for me using a potato-like root he dug up and carved into a disk and some hemp twine he carried. He also showed us some cool big bugs. After about three hours of hiking up and down mountains, we stopped for lunch. Tui had a tiny backpack in which he carried our lunch. I was skeptical that he had enough food, but Tui kept pulling things out of his small pack: vegetables cooked with clear noodles, banana-flower and meat in a spicy sauce, globs of sticky rice. I couldn’t believe how much food he pulled out of his pack! We ate until we were stuffed.

We started down a long steep hill, and then met up with a wet jungle area. I looked down and spotted a small worm. When I asked Tui what it was, he said very calmly, “Oh, leech, hurry, let’s run.” At the time, I was freaked out about leeches and sprinted as fast as I could. It seemed like forever until we got out of the dank tropical region and back onto the dryer hillside. A minute later I heard Ari, my older brother, scream at the top of his lungs. I hurried forward and saw that a leech had suctioned to his lower leg. Tui very easily pulled it off and sarcastically stated that it was only a small one. Ari needed a quick band-aid to stop the bit of bleeding and protect the puncture wound.

School let out in this Akha village to greet a novel visiting group – us!

We passed through a couple of small Akha villages on the way to our destination. At every village, we would walk through the spirit gate that protected the village from the jungle spirits. Once in town, all the people would gather around to watch us. In one place, the entire school of maybe 50 kids were let out to come down and stare at the four white people stomping through their village. We’d wave and say hello, and they would act shy or just plain stare at us. Every time the whole town would follow us to the edge of the village where we would walk again through a spirit gate. We would all wave goodbye.

Finally at around 5 PM we arrived at our first destination, a Kwi village. As we entered the town (no spirit gates are needed in a Kwi village) a crowd of about 100 people – the entire town – swarmed around us and guided us to the chief’s hut. Tui told us that Ari and I were the first white children this village had ever seen, and the first “farang” faces seen at all in many months. We were directed up a bamboo ladder to a bamboo platform – the chief’s front “deck” – and told to take off our shoes. Ari accidentally put his foot through deck, breaking one of the bamboo slats. The villagers all laughed very loudly and Ari blushed and smiled sheepishly. For two hours we sat on the deck while dozens of people crowded around us in a semi-circle. Mostly we all stared at each other.

Zall, Tui, and Ari in front of an Akha village spirit gate.

Tui cooked an excellent dinner of stir-fried meat, vegetables, and sticky (glutinous) rice which the village provided (Tui had sent word earlier we would be there that night). The “stove” was a fire-pit right in the middle of the two-room bamboo hut, set on large flat stones. It turns out Tui is an excellent cook as well as guide! As soon as the sun set we went to bed. The chief offered us quarter-inch thick bamboo mats as hard as a rock and thick slightly mildewy quilts to keep us warm. He made sure we tucked our mosquito nets in at the corners to avoid getting bit at night and possible getting malaria or dengue fever. That night I slept like a baby, at least until the roosters starting crowing at about 4:30.

We got up before the sun, put on our jackets to fend off the cool morning fog, and had a breakfast of Mekong seaweed (an algae that grows in the river and really is quite delicious) wrapped around sticky rice. Another day’s adventure awaited us as we set off into the jungle enroute to a village of the Katu people.

Americans generally see dogs as being man’s best friend and house pet, but many Vietnamese have a slightly different idea of canine possibilities. We accidentally stumbled upon this discovery when looking for dinner in the town of Tam Duong. It was late for eating (7:00 is considered late there) and we could not find a place to eat. We were getting desperate for dinner when we saw a light shining out from between two closed shops – YES, it was a restaurant. We sat down at a table and were, relatively quickly, brought our meat plate. We thought that we were served pork, so we instantly began to grub. After chewing the spiced, porkish meat for a few minutes we realized that it did not taste quite like any pork that we had ever eaten before – Dad thought maybe the pork had been sitting out too long. The only other customer at the restaurant happened to speak a little English so we asked him if what we were eating was pork. He replied that it was not, because he had ordered the pork and his serving looked different. “What is this” we asked him, holding up a chunk of our meat with chopsticks, and he pointed towards a dog that was picking at scraps around the tables.

Dogs are also well-loved, well trained motorcycle partners!

This was our first of two surprising dog moments during our travels. The other took place while we were sitting on the side of a Laos road, dust flying in our faces, waiting for a vehicle to pass by that could take us to our next destination. Several full cars passed us and time seemed to be crawling by at a snails pace. Then, an immense truck that looked like it should have been carrying timber rumbled by. As this monstrosity passed, we noticed that the truck was weighted down with (instead of logs) hundreds of cages occupied by yapping dogs. After our initial thought of “look at all the cute dogs!”, the light dawned. We slowly turned to each other and, after confirming what we had all just seen, turned back to the road to see the truck disappear over a small hill on the way to Vietnam. Once the initial shock had worn off a little bit we recognized that the dogs were being taken away to be used in the place of beef. The end of the month, the traditional time for eating dog, was about to arrive and we were witnessing the preparations.

Our family was most fortunate on our first trip to Vietnam in 2005 to be teamed up through a guesthouse with Sho Lythi as our guide for our first trek. It had been pouring rain for days, and the trails through the rugged steep hills around Sapa in Lao Cai Province were like pudding – thick and slippery. We considered canceling the day-long walk due to the weather, but Sho quickly arranged a batch of 50-cent disposable plastic rain jackets and bamboo walking sticks, and, with a smile larger than her umbrella, cheered us on our way out into the foggy wet.

Starting on Sapa’s ridge-top location, the route for the first half hour was almost straight down – hilltribe people don’t seem to believe in switch-backs! The kids traveled as though they had skis on their feet, slipping and sliding, using the bamboo pole as a balance, and hooted and hollered as they disappeared over the the lip of the hill. Maren and I, being both heavier and more fragile, carefully chose our steps. Sho, walking patiently with us, chatted cheerily and seemed to almost dance her 80 pound frame down the slope. We arrived at the bottom of the hill at her home, where we dried off, scraped the largest clumps of muck off our shoes, and were introduced to Sho’s parents and many sisters.

Maren and Sho slipping and sliding.

From the outside, Sho’s family’s house looks a bit ramshackle, with boards and shingles nailed at odd angles. Pigs, water buffalo, ducks and dogs amble on the front “yard” at the edge of the harvested rice fields. Inside, the floors are dirt; large baskets (triple-walled for rodent protection), both on the floor and up in the wood-planked loft, hold clothing and other textiles, as well as bags of processed rice and corn. Corn also hangs from the ceiling, drying in the smoky, wood-warmed cottage. On the one piece of wooden furniture, a large dresser, sits the color TV; the satellite dish is out back. Sho’s and her mom’s cell phones seem to ring every couple of minutes. An electric iron sits on the ironing board. The house has a single fluorescent light-bulb to illuminate everyone’s sewing and dyeing efforts.

It was dyeing season, and a huge vat of liquid indigo stewed on its own off of the main room. Sho proceeded to educate us all about how her ethnic group, the Black Hmong, dye, weave and sew their own outfits. Every woman makes a new outfit for each family member every year to be first worn on New Year’s, and the old clothing, now faded from wear, is dismantled and made into blankets and other necessities. Dad made tea to share on a second small hearth to help us stave off the damp chill.

Beyond her family’s home, Sho has led us on multiple home-stay treks in Lao Cai Province, and she has helped us acquire some of our treasures at the colorful weekend markets in Bac Ha, Long Phinn and Sapa. Once, quite by accident, we ran into her in Hanoi where she was investing in some English writing classes for a few months. She has a wonderful radiating energy that makes her fun to be with.

The family and Sho, on the first trip when we met in December, 2005.

Sho, age 18 when we met, is fluent in English, Vietnamese, and Hmong, and boasts a spattering of French and German. She learned English on her own from the western visitors who often hire her as a guide. She is chatty, eager to learn about the world, and obviously very intelligent. When she is in her home province, she dresses in traditional Black Hmong clothing – indigo-dyed knee-length jacket with dyed leggings. Her outfit has bright green embroidered bands around her upper arms and on her collar. Like most Hmong women, she adorns herself with several large necklaces and earrings. When we have met her elsewhere, in Hanoi or in Bac Ha, she wears a western t-shirt, blue jeans, tennis shoes, and her trademark cowboy hat (and we did bring her a true Stetson this last summer). Did I mention she is knock-out beautiful and cute as can be? Ari can barely keep his eyeballs in his head when she’s around! The unique lilt in her accent only adds to her charm.

Sho’s family has also become friends. Sho’s mother, at out first meeting, pulled Maren out of a mucky rice patty with a strong arm and a huge smile. She also taught Maren how to turn twists of hemp into strong continuous rope. Sho’s sister’s husband makes traditional metal Hmong jewelry, and Sho’s sisters all sew handbags and other textiles from their year-old clothing (which we in turn have available at Above the Fray).

Sho’s mom twisting hemp strands into one long string.

In addition to her knowledge about dyeing and weaving, her delicious cooking when we have trekked, and her chatty knowledge about the cultures of the area, Sho is also, we discovered, a shrewd shopper. She has helped us bargain for better deals (where her Vietnamese and Hmong language skills come in handy), and she has a great eye for color, quality, and authenticity. She is eager to learn about western culture and tastes, and her efforts to understand what Above the Fray is looking for spurs both her curiosity and her acumen at assisting us.

What we also love about Sho is her willingness to tell us her opinion. So often the guides and translators we hire want to tell us only what they believe we want to hear. Sho, on the other hand, will openly comment on what she thinks, likes, and dislikes. She maintains a calm and overt confidence that both reveals who she is as a person and facilitates our goal of finding the best hilltribe art in Lao Cai Province. Once, in a small shop that had a collection of used Hmong knives, Sho unhesitatingly picked up each knife and whacked them repeatedly against a hard bamboo stick. After castigating the owner for having some knives with softer, and now slightly blemished, metals, she demanded he only show us the better-quality metal knives – the “real Hmong knives” – and then proceeded to negotiate a better price for the better quality items. Sho has no pretense; she lets people know exactly what she thinks.

Sho has become a trusted friend, someone we can count on to follow through and give us honest opinion and perspective. She knows her culture well, and unhesitatingly wants us to represent the very best of her people.